Friday, July 29, 2011

I don’t know about you but whenever I picture cruises I always think bikini clad ladies and nearly naked men frolicking around a giant boat as it sailed through the ocean as laughter and wine bottles floated in its wake. It’d be filled with laughter, cocaine, good times and sexy, sexy moments.

It was a sixteen person boat but they had only managed to book five of us on it so at first I was excited because the tour group would be smaller and I’d get a more personalized experience. That excitement? It got molested to death by old people. In the group I was the only one who was under 70 years old and at first I was confused and concerned that I had gotten into the wrong line and would end up trapped in a retirement home to accumulate bedsores and neglect.

After fifteen minutes of us standing around and eyeballing each other with such looks of disbelief on my part and nervous old person flatulence on their part because they were in the presence of a person who wasn’t close to death and they probably thought I was there to stab them menacingly and steal their dentures, I realized that no one else my age was going to be on this cruise and I was stuck with the Depends Brigade.

All our cruise pictures looked like this.

I’m not lying when I say it was the most fucked up cruise that I have ever been on, and my first cruise, because when you are outnumbered 4 to 1 by people who can barely stand to be awake for two hours straight at a time you spend five billion hours taking a walking tour that would have lasted only an hour.

On two occasions we actually lost three of them old people while walking which caused our Naturalist Tour Guide to have a mini freak-out because holy shit he lost his old people and we spent two hours trying to find them. After getting confused by the brisk pace we set for our speed they had begun to frantically mill around and get swallowed up by a larger group of tourists their own age and no one listened to me when I suggested that we abandon them to their fate.

We eventually found them, on both occasions, on other cruise boats. Because they naturally followed the larger groups back to their boats. Because they were old. And easily confused.

On one occasion one of the old men ended up crushing his way through a sea turtle nest because he was trying to take off his pants in what I was at first horrified to think he was planning on snorkelling naked but he ended up having secret swimming trunks under his pants but they wouldn’t come off properly so like a hundred baby turtles had to die.

And then he proceeded to almost drown in the water because his snorkel wasn’t fitted properly. My suggestion for abandonment was yet again ignored.

Our nights on the boat consisted of me watching “The Galapagos Rose” with the crew after dinner because the old people would fall asleep at like six and you know what’s more fucked up than Spanish language soap operas? Nothing.

After being on that cruise full of old folks I can kind of see why the Eskimo’s used to force their elders out onto ice flows to die.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

(Conversation between The Pilot, the man I've decided to attach the rest of my life too, and myself after watching the last Harry Potter movie. In Bed.)

The Pilot: I wish I new Kung-Fu Karate Ninja stuff.

Me: Why?

The Pilot: So I can beat up anyone I want and ask questions with my closed fist and gets answers in blood.

Me: Who would you beat up?

The Pilot: All those annoying people in the theatre. Like, those parents that made out and let their four year old run around wild at a movie that started at ten at night. Or those people next to us who whispered loudly throughout the whole movie.

Me: I can get behind that.

The Pilot: I'd use my powers for good and just take down the people everyone wants to beat up but can't. Because they don't have super Kung-Fu Karate Ninja stuff.

Me: So, you'd be a superhero fighting for Justice?

The Pilot: Yeah, I'll be beating up all the rude and inconsiderate people and all the people I just want to beat up just because.

Me: So, basically your idea of Justice is whoever annoys you at the moment.

The Pilot: Sort of. Maybe?

Me: That makes you a Supervillian. A dickish Supervillian who's idea of Justice changes depending on your own level of annoyance.

Friday, July 22, 2011

One of the things I did while I was in Ecuador was visit the Galapagos Islands with the intention of stealing a tortoise and sailing it out to international waters just so I can bring it back to Canada and raise it until I eventually grow bored of it and attempt to flush it down the toilet but it’d be too big to flush so I’d probably have to turn it into soup or release it into the wild where it’d probably piss off a gang of moose and get stabbed.

It may not have been a well thought out plan but it was my plan so you can shut up about “Only human laws don’t count in International Waters, not animal laws” and just let a person dream, OK?

To get to the Islands I had to take an airplane from Quito, the capital of Ecuador. There was a brief stopover in Ecuador’s second largest city, Guayaquil. How do I know these facts? It’s called reading the in-flight broucher. Oh snap, you’ve just been learned.

It was on this flight into Guayaquil that something magical happened and made me turn into the charmingly funny and witty and dashingly handsome adult I am today. What, dare you ask, was so magical about this flight? I’ll tell you dear child. I sat right next to two Colombian Drug lords.

I.Sat. Next. To. Two. Colombian. Drug lords.

I’m not even kidding. Honest to god drug lords. My first indication that they were Colombian drug lords happened to be the fact that they looked as if they had walked off the set of Miami Vice and on to my airplane. Gold everywhere. Grey tweed blazers over black t-shirts, dress pants, coke nails and moustaches.

The moustaches were a dead giveaway.

After reviewing the movie Taken multiple times before I left the country so I was up to date on my “insurance policy” which was basically “If kidnapped and sold into the sex trade, call Liam Neeson”, I knew making eye contact would probably lead me down some type of horrible road littered with Colombians and cocaine.

Folks, I made eye contact. Honestly, how could I have not? How often do you get to be thisclose to a drug lord?

Unfortunately I should have listened to my movie instincts because the moment I made eye contact to the one sitting nearest me he started striking up a conversation that I couldn’t understand because he was speaking whatever they speak in Columbia (Columbanese?) and I can barely master the English language on a good day so I was at a loss for words.

The guy kept trying to speak to me despite the fact I couldn’t understand and it frustrated his friend to the point that he decided he was going to translate. He only knew a handful of English so it didn’t really help my efforts of “not inadvertently agreeing to be kidnapped.”

Because, honestly, that’s all I got from that conversation. That by forcing mini vodka’s on me from the plane they would get me drunk and sell me into the sex trade and maybe Liam Neeson will or won’t come for me because in the movie he was totally a dick who ignored the fact his daughters friend got kidnapped too and left her to rot. I didn’t want to be that daughter’s friend in this scenario.

They did get extremely excited to find out I was Canadian as if Canadian meat goes for a far better price than say Russian meat. Since I didn’t want to be kidnapped and turned into bacon, I feigned interest in what was going on outside the window and that every cloud I saw was more beautiful than the last.

This backfired because the guy next to me suddenly got interested in my intense interest for what was happening out the window and tried to get his friend to ask me what was so interesting that I wasn’t having any vodka they kept trying to slip me.

Fortunately when they ended up getting off of the plane at Guayaquil and the old couple who sat across the aisle from me (who, also, ended up being on my cruise but more on that disaster later) started talking to me about how when they were in the airport those exact same guys next to me ended up losing a briefcase that had $60,000 in it and had started freaking out because they refused to go to the Police and how terrible it would be to show up to their boss empty handed.

So basically not only was I sitting next to two drug lords, I was sitting next to the two worst Columbian drug lords in the history of druglordshipness.

Which was pretty awesome considering they probably would have botched my kidnapping leaving me free to enjoy the rest of my vacation.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Two months ago a new guy joined my department at work and I'm going to call him "Edwardo" and he's a nice enough guy who is really shy and non-confrontational and really minds his own business and doesn't usually flutter around and socialize with people while interrupting their work to show them a live penguin camera, or accuse them of eating baby kittens, or stealing the innocence from babies and unicorns a like. He doesn't do that but I do.

So you'd think with the amount of socializing I do, "Edwardo" and myself would have grown a giant rapport and are total work Best! Friends! Forever! and do practically everything together (Which we don't). I thought we got along good, you know?

Until yesterday when my whole department were in a meeting and suddenly our boss says, " So 'Edgar', do you have anything to share after your first two months?" and everyone looked really interested in what 'Edgar' had to say and waited with anticipation to hear all about it. Me, on the other hand? I was confused.

Who the fuck was Edgar? Is what I thought.

"Who the heck is Edgar?" is what I said out loud to my group only to have poor, poor 'Edwardo' raise his hand and give me a look as if I had given him a puppy and then took that puppy away only to kick it under the bridge.

Of course my natural reaction to finding out I've been calling this dude the wrong name for two months was to laugh it off and then ignore him for the rest of my career.

Monday, July 18, 2011

Go Fuck yourself.Hey, how is it going? I imagine you have a lot of spare time what with no one offering you any type of movie deal because you aren't really that good of an actor anyways, I mean the dinosaurs out acted you and they aren't even real are super busy so I will try not to take up a lot of your time.

You are probably wondering why I am writing this letter to you and also probably why I decided to deliver it via a brick to your face. Since you are such a terrible great Hollywood actor I know your face is such a horribly ugly thing you should get checked out because it's probably cancer great asset to your career I figured you would notice if it was being beat with a blunt, brick-like object.

I'm writing you because of a website that I'm pretty sure was spawned by Satan and a llama an Internet rumor that is going around claiming that I look like you! I'm going to kill you for starting it Funny isn't it?

I just wanted to put this rumour to rest because we both obviously know it's not true. If anything you look like me and you should obviously go cry about your failed acting career be honored and giddy about it.

You should probably know that I know a lot of Kungfu and can totally kick you in the knees and junk so it'd be wise if you took this seriously when I say: Please stop using my name and looks to try and revive an already dead thriving career. I may not have a weenie like you but I am pretty sure I can find it really easy to punch it.

Also, can you get me an autograph from that T-Rex that totally out acted you even though he was a robot made of plastic and wires and stuff was your co-star in Jurassic park?

Thanks,

Me

PS: I decided to include a picture so you can see that I am serious. That is totally me kicking that dog.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

A year ago I was sort of wandering around in a daze and felt that my life was missing something that would have made it totally awesome. Instead of cutting off one of my arms and replacing with a robot arm that had lasers to enable me to fight crime or commit crime, the logical solution to increasing awesome was to hop on a plane and go to Ecuador for a month.

Of course, while being in a foreign country and never having actually left your country of birth before this trip, I totally did the tourist thing and packed my days full of stupid things that included sightseeing and horseback riding up a freaking’ volcano with a tour guide that talked about how horrible marriage was and the best thing I could ever do is live alone until I’m dead. No joke. That happened.

One of the things I decided I was going to do was a traditional “Shaman Cleansing” that I had booked through the resort I was staying at. Being the naive, silly Canadian that I am I figured it would be something like what the Native’s of my homeland do. Burn shit and then wafts it around you until you smell like burnt poplar while having a feather in your face. You know something simple and mildly entertaining. And, apparently, cleansing.

Ecuador, my friends, pretty much took my expectations and beliefs and punched them right in the face after giving my grandmother a reach around.

After getting up at a stupid early time in the morning we had to drive three hours to Otavalo to have this uplifting and magical experience. Our trip was sprinkled with sight-seeing, stray dogs, being educated by the marriage hater why poor mountain people are a disease on the land, and seeing some type of sacred mountain we managed to get to the town and submerge ourselves in an old world market that has been going on since the dawn of time that, by some miracle, catered to tourists.

After shopping and lunch we drove to a nearly abandoned parking lot where I was instructed that we had to wait in our vehicle until someone who worked with the Shaman would come greet us to make sure we weren’t spies or the police or something. It felt like an awkward, inappropriate stake out. Then some kid on a bike peddles up, bangs on our window and forces us to follow him in our van through various back streets until we came to Shanty Town USA (not in the USA). There were chickens, goats, and children running around wild in a mystical sort of fashion.

When I was greeted by the Shaman lady she looked to be about a hundred years old, midget sized with age and missing just about all her teeth. She also didn’t speak English and I only know how to rudely say no in Spanish so everything had to be translated by my tour guide.

Everything was going fine when the lady brought us into her little Shaman shack and showed us her beautifully creepy alter that was full of bleeding pictures of Jesus and what I assumed the smiling happy faces of her family because wouldn’t it just be weird if those were just the models that came with the picture frame? Things got weird when she started speaking in Spanish and trying to pull my clothes off of my body in a SURPRISE! I’m going to granny date rape you sort of way.

I tried to fend her off while looking at the tour guide for some help when he eventually said to me “you’ve got to take your clothes of for your Cleansing” and he kind of said it with a smile on his face as if he had waited his whole life to tell a naive, innocent Canadian girl that it was time to strip down for a toothless hundred year old lady.

Eventually Date Rape Granny drew certain across the hut for privacy so I could just show my titties to grandma and not the tour guide because he was an unhappily married boy. But he still had to sit on the other side of the curtain because he would have to translate for us. It was the most awkward peep show I never wanted to be in.

After my mental breakdown I shucked all my clothing until I was just standing in my underwear in this dirty like shack with pictures of bleeding Jesus staring into my soul in a leering, judgemental fashion while her picture frame model family smiled at me. The ritual began with the little old lady grabbing a bottle and spouting of some nonsense before she took a big gulp of liquid. The Tour Guide barely gave me enough warning when he told me I should probably close my eyes for what was going to happen next.

She spit the liquid all over my face. All. Over. My. Face.

Now, getting spit in the face is off putting I’ll admit. What makes it worse? FUCK YOU! It’s tequila that has been distilled to the point that it’s the purest form of alcohol it could ever hope to be. And it Just. Got. Spit. Into. Your. Face. What’s worse than it getting spit in your face? Having to rub it into your face until the burning is slightly less burny.

She didn’t stop with the spitting either. She continued it until my whole body was drenched four or five times until I was pretty sure I had accumulated a contact high by having it rubbing in my face or soaked through my skin. Oh by the way, her hands were roaming every during this just to make sure that my tits and everything else was soaked in liquor.

That feeling of potentially being date raped by a Shaman Grandma? Totally increased tenfold. I couldn’t even concentrate super hard on being cleansed as I was supposed to because I had to formulate a plan of how I was going to tell The Pilot I was date raped by a Ecuadorian Grandmother who didn’t even bother with roofies because she’s hardcore and just decided to start with spitting in my face.

I didn’t think it could get any worse than it was until shit got real.

Once I was completely covered in magic juice she started beating me with nettles. Fucking nettles. As in, I’m going to pull this thorny shit from a bush and beat the first fucking person that willingly comes into my shack. Just for fun. The nettles stung so much against my liquor stung skin that I almost wished she had just planned on date raping me instead.

Just to add insult to injury, she spit more magic juice on me too. Then almost as an afterthought she rubbed an uncracked egg and stones me on too. Just like “Hey, while I’ve got all this random shit sitting around I might as well just molest you with them. For fun, ya know?”

Finally I was allowed to put my clothes back on and I was told I wasn’t allowed to eat anything good and wasn’t allowed to have a shower until midnight. Then we had to drive the three hours back to the resort in a country that routinely boils your blood on an overcast day in a van that didn’t have air conditioning. Needless to say, I’m pretty sure the driver got drunk off the fumes I was emitting after my cleansing beat down.

It wasn’t until I got to the resort and tried to have a shower that I found out they had shut my water off in my room until at least midnight because they take this shit super seriously in Ecuador that it hit me.

I just paid that lady a hundred dollars to spit on me and then beat me up while Jesus cried blood and picture frame models watched. Next time, I might just ask for Shaman identification.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Do you remember the time when you were a little girl and you just happened to notice that you were bleeding all over your underoo's and you had to awkwardly ask your mother why the fuck you were dying in your pants only for her to give you a giant, weird talk about the facts of life and how eventually you will end up pregnant and dead on the side of the road because you had sex with a boy and totally forget the lesson she taught you that by the mere fact that you bleed every month it means sex will kill you until you are at least thirty? You don't? Then it's obvious you are lying.

Or the time that you ended up having a super sexy dream and when you woke up your pants and sheets were as stiff as a plank and in a panic you hid your bedsheets in the closet and it was only a matter of time before your mom found them and had to sit you down and explain that it was totally natural and you would do that in your sleep but if you ever did that in a lady you would end up pregnant and dead on the side of the road because you forget the talk she gave you about not squirting into a lady in the middle of the night? You don't? Then it's obvious you are lying.

To save you from embarrassment of having to ask your mom about all the facts of life and anything that has to do with anything because you will most likely end up pregnant and dead on the side of the road, I am here for you.

Ask me, Tristachio, all those questions you would have reserved for your mom but she's sort of kind of a psycho so you need to ask me.

Leave a comment here or on twitter ( @tristachio ) and I will make sure to answer them with a video. All your questions will be answered, you just have to ask. Even if it's a stupid question, stupid.

Friday, July 8, 2011

As I stated in an earlier post today was the day that my dog got his nuts chopped off and because The Pilot is such a suck butt and couldn't be away from his dog for like five minutes or overnight, I begged the techs to let us take him home only if we promised to bring him in for a check up in the morning just to make sure, like, he didn't die or commit suicide throughout the night because they had stolen his balls.

Needless to say he was sort of drugged up and I had this plan that I was going to pick the winner of the giveaway by writing their names on little pieces of paper and throwing them in a frenzy at the dog and which ever one ended up in his protective cone would win. But those bastards didn't give him a cone and I'm pretty sure it's because I warned them not to charge me if they find an extra nut.

So with no cone I was highly disappointed as we left the vet only to be highly amused by the fact that my dog is in fact stoned. And lucky for him he will be able to get stoned tomorrow because they gave us more pain killers for him to hand out throughout the next couple days because obviously they think I'm a dink and want me to get my dog addicted to prescription medications I probably wont be able to afford thus pushing him into a doggy gang that would lead to him someday getting stabbed. All because I asked about that third nut.

Just to show how stoned my dog is I naturally took pictures and it's like....he looks pretty fucking happy for a dog who just had his nuts forcefully removed from between his legs.

Without a cone I had to come up with another way to find out who the winner was and after some heavy debates and a few stiffen shots and laughing at my dog as he sort of wanders around in a daze and then panicking a bit because he may or may not have pulled some of his stitches, I managed to find a winner.

Jen O. just happens to be the lucky person who gets that Dork T-Shirt from Dork Designs and now that means the rest of you can weep and cry and possibly lynch mob her. Who knows, maybe the person who manages to dislodge her from her horse in a long drawn out civil battle could get the t-shirt instead!

Today happens to be my mother's birthday and let's forget that fact that she's probably turning a hundred years old or something and focus on the real important thing that happened today, shall we?

Just a few minutes ago I dropped my dog off so I could pay someone a lot of money to chop off his nuts. I'm picturing that they will use a giant pair of gold scissors and pretend that his ball sac is the red ribbon that is going to open up a mall that is bigger and better than the last mall because this mall has two extra bathrooms and a fountain. And then a guy will give a speech about how awesome it was to build this new mall and how he wants to thank Jebus and his wife for the chance to use the giant scissors to cut the ribbon and SNIP SNIP SNIP! My dog no longer has balls. All the town citizens cheer and then go use one of the two extra bathrooms.

The day didn't start out all that great because I had to wake up stupid early to make sure he was at the Vet at the proper time so he could be checked in and when I was like "Dude, we are going to mutilate you today so how about coming for a walk?" he literally shit a brick (no he didn't because that'd be gross) and started freaking out because all he heard was "walk" and not anything about the part of mutilation.

I never saw a dog so happy to go get his nuts chopped off before just because he got to walk to the vet and when we got to the vet? He decided he was going to take a giant, steamy pile of turd right in front of their door that was made of glass and had the whole vet staff sitting in the front to watch this steamy turd. The turd sat there with accusing eyes and the vets were probably judging me on what I did and if I didn't pick it up and put it away they would probably give my dog shitty care and maybe leave one nut behind just for the hell of it. Luckily I don't want no freak one balled dog so I had to pick his stuff up and lucky I had a bag in my purse to do so.

When we got inside the dog was all "This place is cool but I've been here before and it's stupid. All these ladies suck balls and you know what? They can suck my balls because I'm sitting like a toddler holding my breath at the door and make you look like a dick who can't control your dog." and I may be a dick that can't control my dog but I've got a bit of dignity, ya know? So I dragged him along the floor so I could talk to the people. I could sense their interest in doing a good job lowering by the second.

When I get let into the Technicians office to get him checked in I literally had to beg her not to keep my dog over night because The Pilot would be so sad and that my dog has thing where he can't be apart from us ever and will probably explode on the spot if he's left over night at a strange place. She gave me the whole "Wow, you are a shitty pet owner because you want to break the rules we have set in place" look before finally agreeing and making me fill out three pages of paper work.

Then she asked me "Does your dog only have two balls or one?" and I totally thought the standard dog always had two balls but what do I know, I'm not a vet? So I sort of look at the dog as if he would take the lead on this one and show her how much balls he has but he was more interesting in being a dink and ignoring both of us because, what do you know it? He's going to town on his balls.

So, being the sophisticated smart person I am I could only answer "Well, I'm pretty sure he's got two balls because he likes flopping those around for everyone to see but I haven't actually counted it before. He might have a third surprise ball, but who knows? Does it cost extra if he happens to have three balls?"

And that's when she took my dog away from me and I'm pretty sure she might not give him back but surprise is on her! He's a giant dick.

A big enough dick, however, that he didn't even whine when she took him away from me. He was just all "See ya whore, I'm going to the Holy Land!" and that was that.

Remember, I'm doing a giveaway today! So technically this is your last chance to enter to win a super shirt that will let everyone know how big a dork you are. Or it might possibly give you super powers.

Thursday, July 7, 2011

I've never been one to point a finger at other people in the Internet and voice my opinion about this and that on my blog because I like to keep it lighthearted and it's hard to fit in a good dink joke while you are Internet abusing other bloggers because what they may or may have not done but really, I could throw in a few good dink jokes but then I wouldn't want them all wasted on a situation that probably didn't need them.

Floating around the blog sphere is a dude who is in college and has a blog that is basically about getting other people to pay for his fancy vehicle that he wants to purchase because, well, if he owned a fancy vehicle he would be able to get a job close to campus. Which, you know, you can't do if you only have two feet.

I just find it repulsive that he's asking for handouts from virtual strangers so they can buy him a car that will only benefit him. I didn't see him write on his blog that he's going to be driving amputated Orphans around to clown parties or legless kitten babies to dentist appointments or anything. It's just all about how awesome his life is going to be with that car and call me selfish but I want my life to be awesome with a car. Or a Unicorn tank, but that's besides the point.

Another section of his blog talks about how he wants to get on a famous talk so in another attempt to get other people to do the work for him and buy him that dang car. I know everyone is able to blog about what they want and do what they want with their own blog but I just felt...dirty reading his. It just felt so self-centered and greedy that it repulsed me. And made me want to write this blog post instead throwing out a cornucopia of dick jokes that would have kept everyone entertained and thinking about Wang.

Maybe it's because I come from a background where I was taught to work for what I wanted no matter the fact that I could have easily got it just by asking. My parents purposefully set out to teach me that the best things in life that you own come from the fact that you worked hard for it. It doesn't come from someone just deciding they are special and everyone else just do the work for them. Maybe that's why it baffles me as to why he has this blog.

But, really, what I wanted to say was....

What does the dink say when it walks into a bar? Nothing, because it's a dink.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Do you remember a time in your life when all you wanted to do was just sit around in a giant vat of gold coins sipping a drink out of a stupidly big cup with a funny spiral straw that is really hard to drink out of and takes a lot of work just to get a sip and all of a sudden you realize that it feels like you pooped yourself but really it's not poop at all. It's just the gold melting underneath your ass because the person who told you it was an actual vat of gold lied and it was just those foil wrapped chocolate dollars and your drink isn't really a drink but it's a poisoned snake-goat?

I don't actually remember a time in my life like that either but I thought it would be a good ice breaker to write about while I sit at my kitchen table in my underwear and wearily demand that The Pilot make me some type of dinner but he doesn't want to make dinner because he's sitting in the living room in his underwear wondering why we aren't having sex because, duhhhh, underweared people should be having sex because it's like Netwon's Law of Sex --- if you are in underwear you might as well be having sex.

But in reality we aren't going to have sex because it's stupid hot in my apartment and all that crazy wind that is blowing outside is blowing in the opposite direction as a giant "fuck you people in an apartment that is stupid hot. I wont save you from melting. I want you to melt because I'm the wind and I'm a giant asshole." and since it's the wind you can't even punch it so you are stuck sitting in underwear not having sex while your boyfriend doesn't make you dinner.

I almost wish I had a helper monkey that would totally help me in this situation but I heard that helper monkies, while helpful, can get bored of their tasks and all of a sudden decide to attack you. I don't think that would be very fun because you'd be expecting dinner but the monkey has other plans that involve eating your face and how uncool is that? It's pretty dang uncool.

So not only am I out of dinner being made for me, I'm out a god dang monkey that wont even make me dinner because I live in Canada and I'm pretty sure we shoot all monkey's that wander North of the border because it's how we roll up here.

Basically what I am getting around to is wondering if it's creepy that we are both in our underwear and for a good ten minutes we stood at the patio door looking across at the school while our dog decided he was going to scream "Hey, look they are sorta naked and not having sex up here!" at every person that walked by but instead of English it came out like a bark that could have made us look like the local neighborhood perverts when in reality we only wanted some wind that the asshole wind wasn't giving us.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

When people turn to me and are all "Dude, what is your inspiration behind your awesome films?" all I can turn to them and say is "Bitch, you are in my personal bubble and you better back that shit up." and then I slap them and eventually realize, later at home while I'm pooping or something, that they had actually asked me a question about inspiration.

The inspiration that I had for this is obvious. Popcorn. Because that's what my weekend was about. Popcorn. If this doesn't spell O S C A R, I don't know what does.

Monday, July 4, 2011

Remember yesterday how I said "I made a movie that is all about titties and slow motion movements but by 'titties' I actually mean 'contains no titties' " and every ones mind was blown? Well, here it is.

Popcorn: Because everything else that could have been interesting to film wasn't happening around me.

Sunday, July 3, 2011

You know how Michael Bay is all like "Hey, I can make movies that involve robots and explosions and slow motion titties bouncing up and down and maybe throw in a storyline somewhere in there but I'm going to mostly focus on titties?" and his movies ended up being somewhat famous even though he's sort of a douche.

And then I was totally "I could totally make better movies than Michael Bay" and I set out and made two short movies that are totally wicked awesome except they don't have anything to do with boobies or explosions or even a simple storyline for that matter but instead I made two movies about popcorn. Yeah, that's right, popcorn.

So basically I'm saying that on Monday and Tuesday I will be premiering my movies and you are all invited to the show but not the cool after party with all the actors and stuff because I don't think I'm going to have enough free cocaine to share with everyone and I'm sort of a greedy asshole like that. But you might be able to come to the after after party and be the person who cleans up everyone elses vomit. Because that's fun, right?